"Well, the kid seems calm, but I haven't decided if that's good or not yet," Sully said quietly as he walked back into the kitchen. Since Rafe didn't have any complaints to talk about, he was just going to give him time to recover in his room for now.
Sam was at the counter cleaning a head of lettuce to prepare it for chopping. The dishes from breakfast had already been cleaned and were drying in the drain. "Let me guess; he told you that I gut-punched him and threatened to cut up his face." Knowing Rafe, he'd been as dramatic as possible and 'wouldn't calm down' until Victor promised to do something about it.
"No," Sully pulled his usual chair away from the table and sat down, throwing an arm over the back casually. "He said you didn't do anything to him."
"What?" Sam paused the rinsing and turned to give Victor a confused look. He must have heard that wrong. Sure, when he left Rafe's room the brat had stopped looking at him like he was a recently discovered tapeworm, and he might have even gotten back into the 'tolerable' category. He was still pretty certain that he wasn't going to let the indignity go, though. "What the hell is he up to?"
"Honestly? I don't know if he's up to anything," Sully answered. "Maybe he figured it wasn't worth the trouble, or that he's had a bad enough day and doesn't want any extra fuss right now. It's not even lunch time yet."
"No," Sam shook the lettuce out and transferred it to the chopping board. "That can't be right. He's scheming again, I can guarantee it."
Sully sighed and rubbed at one of his eyes. This was the kind of thinking that led to most of the confrontations in that house, coming from both parties. Useful when they were trying to scout out new jobs or when their lives were in jeopardy, but not so much in this situation. "Sam…"
Sam could hear concern in his tone. "Oh, here we go," he rolled his eyes and grabbed a towel to dry his hands, then walked to the table and sat down across from Victor, "What is it, dear? Something bothering you?"
"Cute. You already know what's on my mind," Sully gave him an exasperated look. "Just because he isn't saying anything doesn't mean I can't talk to you about it. You can't keep doing this to me."
"Doing what?" Sam asked, indignance creeping into his tone. "My job? You agreed to this."
"No, I didn't," Sully said pointedly. "I agreed with the stipulation that you would stop if it got out of control, and you didn't."
"And he's not bitching about it, is he? I'd call this a win-win."
"And I call this a serious problem if I'm supposed to keep the peace between you two," Sully said adamantly. "Even if he's willing to let it go, he could have chosen to go the complete opposite direction. Were you even listening to me when I told you not to cross the line? Or were you just using the opportunity to get back at him? Because you told me that you were over your pan already before I even started thinking of agreeing to it."
"No, I…" Sam looked away and took a deep breath. "It had nothing to do with the pan, alright? You weren't in there. He overreacts to everything, and I guess I just got sick of it. Maybe I could have kept my cool a little better, but I'd say I did a pretty good job of holding back, wouldn't you?"
"You still didn't do what I asked," Sully crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table, looking at him evenly. "And all you did was give him another reason not to trust you, or me, which could've taken us several steps back, so don't give me shit now about you thinking he's up to something. I know that on some level you know you went too far, and that you feel at least a little bad, so don't fight me on this one."
"Fine," Sam subconsciously crossed his arms and leaned back. He was expecting as much, even if he didn't agree. As long as Victor kept it reasonable, he could handle it. "So, what now?"
Sully eyed him for a second. Sam wasn't going to like it. "Like I said, you can't keep doing this to me. I think what I'm asking is pretty fair given the circumstances; either you only get half the amount of cigarettes on our next supply drop off-" he raised a hand to preemptively silence Sam's protests, "Or you wait a month after the new pan arrives to be able to use it."
Sam stared at him for a beat and narrowed his eyes. "No."
That was about the reaction he'd been expecting. Sully cocked his head to the side. "You know that under normal circumstances I would never presume to try to enforce anything on you-"
"And I can't tell you enough how well that's been working out for us so far," Sam interrupted.
"-So I'm not going to start trying now," Sully continued pointedly, "But I was hoping you'd agree on your own volition, before you turn into the bigger pain in my ass between the two of you."
Sam looked at him evenly for a few seconds, then looked down and nodded. Dammit, Victor knew just what to say to hit his pride. "Well, I've been saying I need to quit smoking anyway."
Sully nodded. "Thank you." Then he took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, fishing a cigar out of his pocket. "I would like to know what's going on in his mind right now, though." He wasn't sure if Rafe really was scheming or playing nice until he could get back at Sam, but he did know that Rafe hadn't just given up. If he could get through that beach incident, he wouldn't be brought down by a leg inspection.
Sam scoffed and pushed his seat back so he could resume working on lunch. "I told you, he's planning something. Probably wants us to drop our guard."
"Or maybe he just decided to stop fighting and work with us for the rest of the year," Sully mused.
Sam snorted. "And maybe we'll find Captain Kidd's long-lost treasure buried under the house."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm just trying to give him the benefit of a doubt," Sully sighed. "I'm supposed to be impartial, I can't just assume the worst."
"Assuming the worst is how we've lived this long, Victor," Sam reminded him. "And you've never been impartial in your life- all you need is a nice set of legs to sway your opinion. That, or a pair of puppy eyes to tug at your heart-strings."
"This isn't a life or death situation," Sully smirked. "Is that your way of telling me that I always took Nate's side of things?"
"Well, he does have nice legs."
Sully chuckled and shook his head. "Not my type. And either you're a terrible liar or you just chose to forget all those times I had your back- especially when he put himself in danger."
"Oh, sure, of course you did," Sam agreed. "Right up until it was time to dish out his punishment, then I had to be the bad guy, and you were the one to make him feel better when it was all over."
"Not true," Sully pointed his cigar at him. "I had to be the bad guy too, plenty of times. Remember the ship incident? He was… seventeen, was it? You'd think that by then he'd be used to me going away on jobs for a while, but this time he begged and begged to come along. You and I both told him 'no' because it was dangerous, and because you couldn't come along and didn't want him to be alone with me for that long. He sulked right up to the time of departure and wouldn't even come out to say goodbye to me. Then, two days into the voyage, who do I find hiding in the cargo bay?"
"Oh, I was ready to kill him for that," Sam recalled as he began chopping up the lettuce. "I was worried sick when I didn't see him at the apartment, and the only thing that kept me from going off on him when you made him call me was how scared he sounded over the phone."
"Yeah," Sully smirked. "Poor kid was terrified, and it didn't help that I chewed his ear off right before calling you. I think he was ready to face you when we got back, but he wasn't prepared for me being mad too. Almost started crying right when I handed the sat-phone over. And I still let him have it after that, so I was twice the bad guy."
"That was the first time you spanked him, wasn't it?"
"Sure was. He made me feel like quite the monster for it."
"And somehow you both survived," Sam smirked, "Ok, fine, but that was once. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it was me who was the monster."
"If you say so. That why you decided to vacation for fifteen years?" Sully couldn't help grinning. "Made me do all the hard work?"
Sam snorted. "Vacation, sure. You're forgetting that I had to deal with most of the teen years. Everything after that was a breeze."
"Breeze, my ass," Sully shook his head and stood to stretch his legs. He wanted to go for a walk, but he wasn't sure if it would be a good idea to leave those two alone in the house again today. Well, at least it was an excuse to get out of exercise. "I'm going to go sort through the newspapers, if you're done flashing that victim complex of yours."
He headed towards the living room and got there just in time to hear Sam's indignant response.
"Oh, I have the victim complex?!"
It took a little while for Rafe to feel ready to leave his room again, but eventually he managed to get himself to the bathroom so he could take a long, cold shower. It helped to remove the lingering heat radiating from his ass, and now he finally felt clean after Sam's intrusion.
By the time he was out, he had largely recovered. His face and eyes weren't red anymore, and he only walked a little stiffly, so long as he went slowly. Sitting would be a challenge, but at least he could wear jeans again. They were still a little abrasive, but he could put up with it if it meant being able to ditch the sweatpants.
Lunch came and went without much incident. He was actually a little relieved to see that the cushions were back in place at the table, but he still had to act annoyed when he saw them, for appearance's sake. Sully was the only one talking as they ate, though the old man didn't seem to notice. He was just rambling about some wild night he'd had at the Waikiki Tiki Lounge back when he and Nate were researching an underground city. The more he talked, the more convinced Rafe was that he was going senile. Either that or he'd gotten far too lost in his own con.
When lunch was over Rafe went back to his room. According to tradition, he wouldn't have to worry about doing dishes today so there was no reason to stay in the kitchen. If, for some reason, they decided to break that tradition then he was sure they would tell him eventually. For now he just had to figure out how to occupy the rest of the day.
One thing was certain; he'd go crazy if he spent another full day stuck inside the house. He needed to let his body rest and recuperate before he attempted anything else with the other two members, and he needed to build some muscle to be able to assert himself more. He knew that, had known it for a while. Unfortunately, his hands were currently too beat up to use the punching bag due to his overzealous use of it since he got it and there wasn't any other exercise equipment on the island.
He needed something to do. Anything to get his mind away from the first half of the day, and to make him feel like he was actually making a little bit of progress for himself since the day he'd failed to kill the Drakes.
He paced his room for a little bit, ignoring the protests from both his leg and his bottom, before realizing that he a completely different problem to address. A much simpler problem that could be solved relatively quickly, making it the perfect distraction: he was almost out of clean clothes. It was time to tackle laundry.
He had a hamper in his closet that was overflowing. He had known for the past few days that he'd have to face it soon, but he'd been neglecting it in order to fulfil his other plans. That, and he knew the first time washing his clothes was going to be difficult. He really didn't want anyone else seeing him do it, or even knowing that he was doing it. He never liked having an audience when he was doing menial tasks. It felt too average.
Unfortunately, neither men left the house much unless they were smoking, but then they'd be just outside and he'd run into them anyway. Or they'd be down at the docks taking care of the supply drop, which meant he might run into Shoreline mercs if he stepped out, which would be even worse. No, he wasn't going to get away without anyone seeing him, so he had to figure out how to transfer his laundry to the little shed outside while appearing nonchalant about it.
He contemplated on what to do. Did he really need to take all the clothes? He could carry the whole thing to the shed since it wasn't too heavy. It was bulky, though, and would therefore be annoying to maneuver. It'd be difficult to carry without looking like an idiot.
Then there was the problem of the contents, some of which he didn't want anyone else seeing. He solved that one easily enough by putting his recently used towel on top of the pile and tucking it down around everything else, though he folded it a bit so it didn't look like he'd done it on purpose.
That solved, he still had the first dilemma to decide. He didn't really need to do all of it at once; maybe it was better to just do half of it now to allow for the learning curve and the rest later when he was sure he knew what to do.
No, he shook his head. If eleven-year-old Mexican girls knew how to do laundry for a living, he could figure it out. Hell, if Samuel knew how to do it, it should be a breeze. There was no reason to make it two trips when one should be sufficient.
With his mind finally made up, he opened his door and hefted the hamper to carry it out.
Unfortunately, Sam was still in the kitchen when he walked through. He stared straight ahead and pretended he didn't see him.
"You're doing laundry? Now?"
So much for that. "Fuck off."
"I..." Sam stopped whatever he was about to say and sighed. "Do you need help?"
"What did I just say?"
"That doesn't tell me anything," Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let me get the door for you at least." He began walking over.
Rafe looked at him, set his hamper down, and pushed the door open himself. Then he resumed his way.
Sam shook his head and closed the door behind him. Rafe heard him mutter the word 'brat' right before the door shut.
Nope. He wasn't going to take the bait. Not today.
Rafe shuffled his laundry to the shed and dropped the hamper on the tiled floor. Alright, there couldn't be much to this. He just had to put the clothes in, add some soap, and turn it on. How hard could it be?
He opened the top of the machine and glanced inside. Thankfully, it didn't look as dirty as he would have expected with it's age. It might actually do an adequate job of cleaning. Still, it wouldn't have killed them to upgrade to a newer model, one that did all the thinking for them.
He pulled the hamper closer and spent the next few minutes packing his clothes in, jamming them down to get them all to fit. Next he had to find the soap. Luckily, there weren't many places to hide it in there. He opened the only cabinet in the room and for the first time since deciding on this task he felt a little overwhelmed.
There was a big bottle of detergent, which was obviously the one he needed, but there were several other chemicals in with it. Fabric softener, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, a slew of various stain fighters, and starch. What the hell was fabric softener? Did clothing randomly get hard when you washed it? Or was that something poor people needed because they bought shitty clothes? It might explain why his jeans were so rough.
He frowned. Well, his clothes shouldn't need any of the fancy cleaners, at least. He didn't spill food on himself or absorb smoke or anything like that. Detergent should be enough.
He hoisted the bottle and unscrewed the cap, then began pouring the detergent into the machine. There were a lot of clothes and he didn't exactly trust whatever off brand soap they had bought, so he was very generous with the amount. Then he poured in some fabric softener for good measure, just in case.
When that was over he closed the lid and stared at the different dials. Load size was easy- extra large. Wash temp? Hot sterilized things, so that seemed the logical choice. The others, not so much. He chose the best matches that he could, turned the largest dial to 'extra rinse', and hit start.
The machine began to fill with water, and for a little while it seemed like he had done everything correctly. He wasn't ready to go back inside, though, so he leaned against the wall and waited for a few minutes, just to make sure it kept going smoothly.
As the 'wash' cycle started, the machine chugged a few times, then belched out some bubbles and went dead.
"I'd just like to point out, I am showing amazing restraint right now," Sam commented, pacing in the living room.
"I'm sure you are," Sully mused, only half-listening. He had The Wall Street Journal open in front of him and was skimming the obituaries for any names he might know.
"He's been out there a long time, probably just staring at the machine. Why is he even doing laundry right now? He just got spanked, he should be sleeping, or moping, or something other than chores." Sam glanced towards the clock. "I give him five more minutes before he skulks back here and asks for help. Only, instead of 'help', he's going to tell me that the machine is broken and I need to come and fix it. Because obviously a washing machine isn't complicated at all, so if he can't work it out then there must be something wrong with it."
Sam shook his head. "Am I going out prematurely to handle it and save myself a headache? No." He paused his pacing right in front of Victor and crossed his arms. "I'm doing what you said and letting him work it out for himself. Despite the mess he's probably making. I'd just like to point that out."
"I'll be sure to give you a goddamned gold star," Sully glanced up at him. "Will that make you feel better?"
"Depends. If I put it on my tongue, will it dissolve?"
Just then, the door in the kitchen opened and Rafe appeared in the entrance to the living room. He glanced at Sam unhappily for a second, then fixed his eyes on Sully. "I'm going to need you to come outside for a minute."
"Jesus Christ, Rafe, what the hell did you do?" Sam wiped the suds off the lid of the washing machine and opened it up. Immediately, he knew exactly what happened.
"I did laundry," Rafe complained, watching Sam with his arms crossed. He wasn't too happy that the older Drake had insisted on coming along. "What did you think I did? It's not my fault that that thing's a million years old!"
"There's nothing wrong with the machine," Sam threw a look over his shoulder and reached in to grab a handful of clothes. They were packed in so tightly that he had to tug to get any out; at this point he didn't even care that he was stretching them. "You should have taken my help when I offered it."
"I didn't need any! What are you doing?" Rafe immediately uncrossed his arms and walked over. He didn't want anyone else touching his clothes.
"Moving half of these to the sink for now," Sam answered, "There's enough in here for two loads, maybe more. You can't just throw two weeks' worth of clothing in and expect it to work out." He threw the sopped clothes into the nearby sink, dripping water everywhere. "Chris'sakes…"
"Don't do that!" Rafe pulled his clothes out of the sink. "When's the last time this thing's been cleaned? Who knows what's in there?!"
"Who cares?!" Sam retorted, throwing in another handful. "Your clothes are getting washed anyway!"
"Sam," Sully warned from the doorway. He had been leaning there quietly, trying to hide his amusement at the whole situation. He wasn't going to be much help, since he didn't know a lot about laundry either. Though, apparently, he at least knew a little more than Rafe did. He was only there to make sure no one got strangled with a wet shirt if the tension got too high.
"We're lucky he didn't break the tumbler," Sam muttered, "Fine." He opened the cabinet and found a sponge, then tossed it at Rafe. "Here, wipe it down if it makes you feel better."
Rafe held the sponge like it was a dead rat and looked at Sam. Then he slowly turned the water on at the sink and held it under. When the sponge was soaked it released a few suds, so he felt better about using it. He meticulously wiped the sides of the sink down, then wiped the bottom three times to make sure all the residue went down the drain, all while Sam waited impatiently. When he was satisfied, he threw the sponge back at Sam and began to transfer his clothes to the sink himself.
Sam rolled his eyes and put the sponge away. "Serious question, Rafe. Did your parents teach you to do anything for yourself? How old were you when you learned to chew your own food?"
Rafe glared his way. "Don't talk about things you don't know about," he said through grit teeth. "And it's not like I did a bad job here, other than overestimating the machine's capacity."
"You didn't even separate the colors!" Sam said, exasperated. He reached in the washing machine to help Rafe with the transfer. "And just how much detergent did you put in, anyway?"
Rafe stopped him before he could grab any more of his clothes. "I'll do it, don't touch anything else. Why does it matter if it's all together? Are you telling me that I need to do a separate load for each color?"
Sam just shook his head, defeated. This was worse than Rafe's first try at washing dishes. "I... I don't even know where to begin. Just take as many clothes out as you can. I'll drain the basin, and we can start over. Alright?"
"Yeah, whatever," Rafe scowled, "You don't have to watch me. I'll come and get you when I'm done."
"It'll be faster if you let me help."
"Fuck off."
"What about Victor, then?" Sam asked. "Will you let him help?"
Sully raised a brow at that, and Sam just shrugged at him. He didn't like being volunteered to do any kind of work, but he supposed he couldn't get too mad. At least Sam was trying to be a little understanding.
"Sorry," Rafe said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "I didn't realize you were on a tight schedule out here in the middle of fucking nowhere."
Sam rolled his eyes and backed up to lean against the wall. "Suit yourself. I'm staying right here."
It took several minutes, but Rafe managed to get most of his clothes into the sink. There were still some sitting at the bottom of the washing machine's basin, but he wasn't willing to reach that deep into questionably clean water.
By the time he was done, the shirt and pants he was wearing were soaked and he felt like taking another shower. Sam wasn't willing to let him leave to take one, though.
"You stay right there while I get the water draining," Sam pointed at him before crouching down in front of the machine to access the drain hose.
"I'm not a dog," Rafe protested indignantly.
"I never said you were one, I just said to stay put."
In response, Rafe held up a finger to his back. It was petty, but better than nothing.
While the water drained, Sam taught him the basics, starting with how to separate his clothes out and what was considered a good load size. He also made sure to point out just how much detergent he'd need to use. Rafe hadn't answered his question about how much he had put in, but there was enough sludge on the top layer of clothing that it really didn't take a lot of thinking to figure out.
Rafe hated absolutely everything about Sam teaching him another chore, so when the first load was finally on its way to getting clean, he was ready to get away and be by himself for a bit. He still didn't want to go back to being cooped up in his room, though, and he was even willing to forsake a shower to stay out of the house.
"Alright," Sam nodded with relief when the machine was running smoothly again. "That'll take about an hour to finish, so find something else to do for now." He was also more than ready to be done teaching Rafe basic household skills. His parents had really, really failed in raising him.
Rafe took a deep breath and straightened his back. Well, that was another hour of the day he would have to push out of his mind. "I think I'll go for a walk," he commented, then amended. "Alone."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Sully spoke up. "Your leg…"
"My leg is fine," Rafe said. He looked at Sully with annoyance, wishing he would drop the subject by now. "I've been stuck in the house for the past two weeks, and in a cell for even longer. I'm going to get stir-crazy soon."
"It was all your choice," Sam said under his breath.
"Beats being around you," Rafe replied evenly, turning to glare at him.
"Too bad, you can't get very far away from me here."
"Yeah? Well maybe I should follow in your mother's footsteps and commit suicide to get away from you." It was out before he even thought about what he was saying. Well, so much for letting his body recover before starting anything again, but at least it felt good to say it.
It felt even better when he saw the look on Sam's face. He hadn't seen eyes that cold since he had shot at Nathan and sent him over a cliff, which they both thought had killed him. Sam's hand clenched in a fist, then he simply turned around and left without a word.
Rafe raised a brow. If Sully hadn't been behind him, there was a high chance that Sam would have punched him. Hell, with that look, he might have even killed him. He'd been trying to find the right button to push all this time, and now he'd wasted that opportunity.
"Rafe," Sully spoke to get his attention. "That wasn't very nice."
"I never claimed to be nice," Rafe said, turning back to look at him. By now he had schooled his features back into a calm, composed expression.
Sully shook his head. "Don't expect any favors from me until you apologize for that one- verbally. You understand me?"
Rafe shrugged. "I don't need any favors from you."
"Sure you don't." He was glad Nathan wasn't there. The younger Drake wouldn't have been able to keep his temper in check. "How'd you even know about that? There's no remaining documentation linking them to their mother anymore."
"Believe it or not, at one point I was pretty close to them," Rafe answered. "My younger, naïve self might have even called them friends. They confided in me."
That was something he hadn't actually considered. "And you cared enough to listen?"
"Call it a professional courtesy," Rafe said.
"Right," Sully nodded. "Do you have any relationships with people that aren't just 'professional', Rafe?"
Rafe smirked. "Are you asking me on a date, Sully?"
"Cute."
Rafe shook his head. "No, I don't. Not anymore. I'm not making that mistake again."
"That's not a good way to live, kid," Sully said. But, he knew Rafe wouldn't want to talk about it. That was a conversation to save for later. "I'm going to make sure Sam's ok. Go ahead and take your walk. Take it easy on that leg of yours, though, and don't go too far that you can't walk back."
Rafe nodded and waited for the old man to leave. Then he straightened up, pushed the last hour out of his mind, and exited the shed. The last time he had ventured outside was when he buried the food coloring and the bag of honey. This time he chose to walk in the other direction to see what was out that way.
Forty minutes into the walk, he came across a concealed beach. He stopped in his tracks and stared, confirming that he actually saw what he thought he did.
Shit. There went his plans for blowing up the island at the end of the year.